Atlas Hands
by moonstones42
Summary: Sherlock's faked his death and lives in hiding and depends on Molly as his only connection to his old life. John and Laura's relationship endures ups and downs as they continue their lives without him. Although Sherlock is welcomed back with open arms, his return after 3 years creates difficulties not even the great detective saw coming. Sequel to Last Smoke Before the Snowstorm
1. About Today

**A/N: Here we are at the sequel! Welcome back faithful readers! And if you've found yourself here without a clue what's happening, I suggest you go back and read Last Smoke Before the Snowstorm; it's a bit long, but definitely worth it. You could probably make your way through this without having read it, but you won't have a clue who Laura is or why everyone's so angsty...**

* * *

Laura Adler hated therapy. More specifically, she hated therapists. The child psychologists she'd apathetically decorated coloring books and played board games with in her youth; the grief counselors she'd numbly endured after her parents' deaths; the school advisers she'd begrudgingly sat through mandatory meetings with during her high school career. They'd been unanimously useless in her adolescence, and they were only more unhelpful now in the wake of another great loss.

Admittedly, she had benefitted from the legally mandated sessions with a rape counselor immediately following that traumatic afternoon. But beyond that, Laura only visited the run of the mill therapists her lawyer had recommended because John was so adamant about the wonders of psychiatric medicine. She knew it set him at ease, to think that his girlfriend was finally getting the help she needed. And so John ate up her assurances that all was well, and she pushed aside her guilt as she watched him desperately hold onto the pipe dream that Laura would one day have as inspiring a success story as he did.

But if anything, the shrinks had only done more damage to Laura's fragile psyche.

They'd sit in their dark brown leather armchairs surrounded by red oak furniture with bored expressions, and doodle listlessly in their notebooks as she talked. Or worse, they'd sit in their wicker chairs with biodegradable organic hemp cushions as they listened to her with the kind of pitying gaze charity donation commercials were designed to provoke. Then they'd put down their pens or stow away their canned sympathy for the next poor unfortunate soul. And once Laura had finished speaking, they'd move on to dismissing her every word.

Suggestions of "have you considered that your own actions somehow contributed to this outcome?", or "perhaps you misinterpreted his words? The mind plays tricks on us in distressing situations, you know," were frequent responses to Laura's description of what she'd endured. In other words, they all seemed in agreement that Laura had either imagined or somehow caused Sebastian Moran to cite James Moriarty as his reason for brutally beating and raping her.

No one had ever denied that Sebastian had raped her, and for that Laura supposed she ought to have been grateful; at least she didn't have to fight for the bare bones of her story to be accepted. Sherlock's reputation had been demolished, and Moriarty was erased from history and replaced with Richard Brooks, but there was no denying what Sebastian had done to her.

But what did seem to be up for debate in every therapist's office were Sebastian's motive for attacking her. With Moriarty now dismissed as an invention of Sherlock's fame-hungry mind, Laura's assertion that the criminal master mind was behind Sebastian's attack had been entirely discredited. Of course, this discrepancy didn't keep Laura from asserting the truth; Sebastian had told her why he'd done what he did, and Laura was determined not to keep quiet about it.

Laura incessantly fought back against her therapists' degrading diagnoses, refusing to stand by and let them claim that she'd misheard Sebastian or somehow prompted him to use that excuse. And the counselors would in turn attempt to placate her with yoga coupons and free incense, or prescriptions for pills that ultimately made it even harder for her to discern between her dreams and the waking world.

Laura began cutting her relationship with Sherlock out of her story after her first two therapists, Dr. Michaels and Dr. Yun, both told her she only held onto her belief in Moriarty's existence so she wouldn't have to face the reality of her fake-genius lover and his shameful suicide. But once she removed her affair with Sherlock from the equation, Dr. Bloom and Dr. Harris and Dr. Tyson all came to a new but equally untrue conclusion: Laura was merely projecting her troubled past on to current events that her brain linked together. In other words, she saw the world through a fractured lens because she was damaged goods.

The final straw arrived in the form of Dr. Cameron, who told Laura that a long-term exposure to mystery novels had caused her to borrow the excitement of a fictional world and project it into her own life. The supposed medical professional declared that Laura had connected the Jim from her past with the fictional Moriarty because it made for a good story. According to him, she'd been unable to deal with her sister's death and what Sebastian had done to her, so she'd concocted an elaborate conspiracy instead. Laura put an end to her therapy visits after that incredibly insulting and illogical ninety minute session.

However, she refrained from telling John that she'd given up on therapy. She made withdrawals from their account, took blank checks to the post and then shredded them, made regular appointments with imaginary doctors in her day planner. She knew John needed to believe she was getting help, even if it couldn't be farther from the truth. She'd sworn to look after him, and she would keep that promise even as all else in her life seemed destined to crumble and fall apart.

* * *

"We should tell someone."

John looked up from his plate of pasta to where Laura sat across from him, her wine glass having halted midway on its path to her mouth. She'd seemed distracted all evening, not having looked up when he'd arrived home with takeout from Angelo's as he did every Thursday night.

John was still far from healed enough to dine in the restaurant where he'd shared his first meal with his closest friend, but his therapist had suggested he at least make a habit of frequenting the place to get used to visiting the premises. So he'd devised a schedule, picking up Laura's favorite dishes once a week for a casual date night at her kitchen table.

But tonight had been different from the moment he'd walked in the door, and John got the feeling he was about to find out why.

"Tell who what?" he asked around a mouth full of alfredo, hoping this would be the sort of conversation he could continue eating through while offering the occasional grunt of agreement or denial. He knew based on her preoccupied demeanor all night that that would be too good to be true, but a man could dream.

"I don't know. Someone. The media, the newspapers, a journalist," Laura offered with forced nonchalance, and John halted his food intake when she still refrained from looking at him.

"And what are we telling them exactly?" he asked again, now not so sure he wanted an answer. He knew where this was going, but nonetheless hoped it would be something simple, something normal, something domestic. Something not related to-

"Sherlock. We should tell someone about Sherlock," Laura said as she lowered her glass back down to the table, her gaze finally meeting John's.

His dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter, leaning back in his chair and running his hands over his face.

"Laura, we've _talked _about this-," he began with a tired sigh, but she cut him off with a surge of energy as she leaned forward, all illusions of a calm dinner shared between lovers chased away by her movement.

"No, John, _you've _talked about this. It was your decision, not mine; I didn't want it then and I don't want it now."

John opened his mouth to respond but she held up a hand for silence. And although a few months back he might have fought for his turn to speak, John had now grown accustomed to letting Laura have her moments. It was futile to interrupt her when she got like this, he'd learned over the past few months.

Sometimes, if he was in the mood for a row, he'd continuously interrupt her, egging her on, pushing her buttons until they were both screaming and raging and hurling the raw pain they both felt at each other like allies turned enemies by suffering too heavy for them to bear. But John had worked a double shift earlier today, and was thus rather tired. So he sat back and let Laura have her moment.

"He doesn't belong to you; you don't have some kind of monopoly on his story and who he was. What happened is as much my story as it is yours and his, and I want people to know the truth," she insisted in a loud voice.

"They won't believe you," John said absently for what felt like the hundredth time, despite the fact that they'd never had this conversation aloud before. But they'd argued over this same subject countless times, in unspoken words and gestures, in unreturned smiles and dodged kisses.

"How could you say that when we haven't even tried?" she asked, her voice weak now, and her eyes brimming with tears. John almost reached across the table for her hand, but he thought better of it. He'd rather not try at all than endure the sting of rejection he knew he'd face when she jerked away from his touch as she did so often nowadays.

"Because they want a story, Laura. And fake genius conspiracy sells better than the old washed up news of miracle detective who made them all look like idiots for so long," he told her in the kindest tones he could manage, working hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

"How can you say that? How can you just give up on him so easily?" she whispered, tears shining on her cheeks now, and all John wanted was to finish his asparagus and go to bed.

"I'm not giving up. I'm just...I'm just trying to move on as best I can," he told her, and he could almost see Laura shut him out. Her jaw hardened ever so slightly, her eyes narrowed, her fingers curled into fists. And he knew then and there that she'd never let go of the dead detective, that she'd continue shoving salt into wounds before they could even begin to heal.

He could see that she was desperate. She believed all she had left now was the pain; she was afraid that if she didn't have the pain, she wouldn't have anything at all.

John just wished he could somehow make her see that she would still always have him.

* * *

**A/N: Whew. That was pretty depressing. Well, like I said before, it starts off sad and then gets happy later on! What do you guys think of John's point of view? Keep bringing him in or no?**

**Next chapter things get exciting with Sherlock and the very first prose appearance of Molly Hooper! I am so glad I finally started writing this, it's so exciting! **


	2. Wasp Nest

**A/N: Welcome to the second chapter of the sequel! As well as the debut of the spectacular Molly Hooper! She's got a much bigger role in this story, so if you're a Molly fan get excited!**

* * *

Molly Hooper stared down at the slip of paper with a cocktail full of conflicting emotions. She'd been quite suspicious upon opening the unmarked standard white envelope she'd found pushed under her flat's front door. The unfamiliar symbols and figures that decorated the page within had brought about a jolt of fear, but nonetheless she'd taken a moment to crack the relatively simple code. And once she'd deciphered the clandestine message, she'd felt a new and much more potent mixture of relief, disbelief, pity, and anger.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

* * *

"I just don't know what to do," Laura confessed with a heavy sigh, and Molly fought down the stomach-churning guilt she felt as her closest and maybe only friend confided in her. "I mean John is completely against it, but I feel as if it's the only way. I just need to _do_ something, you know? He deserves to be remembered as he was, not as the media wants to portray him," Laura continued, and Molly nodded dutifully.

"You're being quiet - quieter than usual. What's wrong?" Laura asked as they came to a halt on their walk. They'd stopped just outside of Nora's Grand Emporium, a quaint little bookshop and cafe that they'd made their home away from home.

"Nothing," Molly lied, knowing the nervousness in her voice had given her away.

"Mmmhmm," Laura hummed disbelievingly as she pushed open the door to the shop, but she thankfully didn't press the subject; Molly considered herself a poor liar even on her good days, and this was not one of them

As much as Molly hated the secretiveness and deceit, she knew there was no way she was going to let herself defy Sherlock's wishes. He'd requested that neither John nor Laura nor any other living soul be alerted to his current state. He of course hadn't bothered to elaborate on why he didn't want the two people closest to him to know that he was still alive, or why he'd contacted Molly in the first place. But she'd never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and had thus responded to his coded message in kind without the stream of questions that plagued her.

"I think I'm going to go through with it," Laura said firmly as they took their seats at their regular table, and her words jarred Molly from her thoughts. It took her a moment to remember what they'd been discussing and get her mind back on track.

"Are you sure that's the best idea?" Molly wondered as any concerned friend would. But when Laura's face hardened, she knew she'd made a misstep; Molly could only hope Laura wouldn't close her out in response to her transgression. For the past few weeks it had almost constantly seemed as if Laura was on the verge of shutting everyone who cared about her out for good.

But a moment later Laura's anger faded and her shoulders slumped in defeat instead. It suddenly occurred to Molly that the fierce mask Laura wore so often now days was in fact a shield to protect her true defeated and exhausted nature.

"It's all I have," Laura admitted in a small voice. "I can't give up on him," she added, her eyes brimming with tears.

Molly almost expected Laura to add that Sherlock was all she had- which would have of course eliminated John from the equation. Molly knew about Sherlock and Laura's relationship; Laura had eventually broken down and told her everything, unable to keep it to herself any longer. But Molly had been under the impression that Larua needed both John and Sherlock equally. However, the more obsessed Laura became with clearing Sherlock's name, the farther she seemed to drift from John.

"I've been building a case to go public," Laura told her, and Molly nearly choked on her coffee in disbelief.

"Maybe you should take things slow," Molly began, but Laura adamantly shook her head.

"It's been eight months Molly; I'm tired of waiting, waiting for nothing. Someone has to do something. John doesn't approve and you're too afraid, so it's up to me."

Molly flinched at the jibe, but tried her best not to feel too stung by Laura's words. This woman was in serious distress, Molly reminded herself; she had to take everything Laura said with a grain of salt.

"Are you sure John doesn't approve? Maybe he just wants to be a bit more cautious?" Molly offered, and Laura rolled her eyes.

"God, you sound just like him," she sighed in exasperation. "He used to say that all the time when I first brought it up; 'maybe you're moving too fast' 'maybe we should slow down and let it alone for a bit'. All words of a coward," Laura practically spat, and Molly couldn't deny the hurt she felt at the words. She wondered if John knew what Laura thought of him.

Molly wanted to say something in John's defense, but she couldn't think of anything that would change Laura's mind; in the other woman's estimation, Molly was a coward as well.

"And because John is so afraid of revealing the truth, I'm not going to tell him about the case I've built. I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself as well," Laura said, and Molly felt a stab of anguish for the wreck Laura and John's relationship had become. She knew Laura had made a habit of keeping secrets her whole life, but this seemed like the sort of topic that didn't need to stay behind closed doors. And if Laura was keeping this sort of information from John, Molly wondered if they even shared anything anymore.

"Would it really be so bad if John knew?" Molly hinted, and Laura took a long pull of her coffee before answering.

"You should see the way he looks at me now. Ever since he found out I was skipping my therapist appointments. You'd think I was some sort of kicked kitten mewling in a thunderstorm the way he stares at me with this look of pure pity. I'm fucking tired of it," Laura said vehemently, winning the gaze of the shop goers sitting within earshot.

"You get that same look sometimes," Laura continued with a gesture across the table at Molly. "Everyone is just so pitying but no one is willing to expose the truth. Even John, Sherlock's closest and maybe only friend, would rather just 'know in his heart' that Sherlock and Moriarty were real than actually do anything about it. He wants me to move on and let go and a bunch of other meaningless shit? Well then why won't he let me? Why won't he let me do what I have to do?"

Laura's voice had risen in volume and anguish as she'd talked, and she was in near hysterics by the time she'd finished. Molly rose from her chair, ignoring the stares of other coffee drinkers as she beckoned Laura to stand as well. She pulled the now sobbing woman into a hug, letting her bury her face in her shoulder as she soothingly rubbed her back.

As they stood together in the middle of the shop with Laura holding onto Molly for dear life, Molly could only think that she hated Sherlock Holmes. She hated him for seducing Laura, for leaving the two people closest to him in such shambles, for contacting her...and most of all for making her swear to secrecy.

_Not dead. Need your help. Tell no one. SH_

The note had read like a telegraph, giving almost no information or insight, but still asking Molly to perform the hardest task she'd been challenged with to date. And as Laura continued to cry into her shoulder, she could only hope that whatever Sherlock needed from her would be worth it.

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter's already been written so I should have it up sooner rather than later. We'll get more of an insight into what Laura and John's relationship has dissolved into following Sherlock's death**


	3. Fireproof

**A/N: Welcome to chapter three! Hope you enjoy the very destructive and really quite pitiful mess Laura and John's relationship has become. But remember, for every bit of angst you'll be rewarded with happy times later on down the road. **

* * *

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

John stared down at the front page of The Times in utter disbelief, rage pulsing through him as his eyes scanned the article without retaining any more information than the headline. He'd dropped his toast with jam when he'd spotted the paper on the doorstep, but didn't bother to pick it up as he burst back into the flat.

_Woman Claims Fake Genius Innocent, Cites Assault as Proof _

"Laura!" he screamed, not in the least worried about disturbing the building's other inhabitants. "Laura!" he shouted again, slamming the door when he wasn't immediately met with a response.

"What, did you set the toaster on fire again?" She asked as she padded into the kitchen from the bedroom in one of his old t-shirts. He hated the way she still managed to look adorable with her fuzzy socks and wild hair when he was trying to be furious.

Her voice sounded nonchalant enough, but John noticed the flicker of a smile she tried to hold back as she talked. She already knew exactly what had enraged him.

"What did you do?" he growled, and Laura shrugged, no longer bothering to hold back her shit-eating grin. She looked as if she'd done this just to bother him. Perhaps she had.

"I told the truth," she told him with an air of haughtiness, as if that somehow made her superior, and John threw the paper onto the counter. He scrubbed his hands over his face and let out a heavy groan, dreading what was to come now that Laura had thrown all reason out the window.

"God you're the smartest woman I've ever met but you can be such an idiot sometimes," he sighed, and Laura looked as if she might hit him. He wished she would, if only to give him an excuse to punch something. He'd performed many a DIY home repair in the wake of their fights; John had a habit of punching walls, while Laura preferred smashing plates and mugs.

"Do you realize what this means now? Do you?" he demanded, his hands balled into fists.

"It means the truth is out," she told him confidently. "It means-"

"It means you're going to be interviewed and interrogated and harassed. It means they're going to pick your story apart piece by piece trying to prove you wrong. And they'll do it all under a spotlight, with millions watching. They're going to say you lied about the whole thing, for whatever reason. That you made it all up for the attention, or because you were in love with him, or because you're unstable, or because-"

"Enough!" Laura screamed, on the brink of furious tears, but John wasn't done. He was just so angry, so incredibly pissed, that she'd done this to herself. Couldn't she see he'd been trying to protect her when he'd told her to leave it alone? Couldn't she see all he'd ever wanted to do was look after her? But she hadn't wanted his help, his sympathy and understanding. And so he wasn't going to give it to her now.

"They'll tear you apart. They'll talk about your childhood, about Irene and Sebastian. They'll try to invalidate everything you've done since then, your career and your life with me and Sherlock- everything about you will be destroyed for all the world to see," he raged, his voice full of emotion. He hated that Laura had placed herself in this position. But his anger was really directed at the people who would do these things to her, the scumbags who had no regard for her welfare as long as they could get a good story out of it.

"I don't care," Laura told him, her voice now resigned and emotionless, and the three short words were like repeated stabs to John's heart. He hated it when she closed herself off like this. "I don't care what they say. I did what I had to do," she told him like an exhausted warrior returning home from battle.

"Goddammit," he muttered to himself. She still didn't understand.

"Laura, love, it doesn't matter what you said to them," he told her, taking a deep breath to calm himself and speaking in the calmest tones he could manage. "They'll discredit what you said about Sherlock and anything and everything you've ever said before or after. They'll ruin you so they can keep their fake genius story."

He reached out to touch her arm as he spoke, and to his surprise she let him.

"I had to try," she whispered, her voice thick with tears now, and John pulled her into a hug. He couldn't remember the last time she'd let him touch her like this- even the last time she'd let him touch her at all.

"I know, love. I know," he whispered, daring to place a kiss on her forehead. He let out a sigh of desperate relief when she didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry," Laura muttered into his chest, her words so quiet John couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.

This was how it always began. A row, followed by an apology from one of them, concluded by a melancholy and even somewhat depressing fuck. That had been the extent of John and Laura's love life since she'd become obsessed with proving Sherlock's innocence. The past month hadn't even seen that woeful series of events; Laura had been cold and standoffish, refusing to even come within a foot of John.

"What was that?" he asked, lifting her chin with a finger.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, looking up at him with big soft blue eyes. John had half a mind to ask for permission to kiss her, she looked so innocent and fragile. But he leaned down without a word, hesitantly brushing his lips against hers; it had been so long since they'd kissed he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost.

Laura kissed him back, soft and slow but with a touch of want that hadn't been there in so long John nearly didn't recognize it. She lifted her hands to wrap around his neck, and his hands found their way to her thighs beneath her tshirt. His touch traveled higher, grazing her underwear and along her stomach until he'd made his way to her breasts, softly squeezing the way she liked.

Laura moaned into the kiss, and John felt his breath catch in his throat when she reached down to massage him through his boxer shorts. He was almost dizzy with pleasure after going without the slightest touch from her for so long. He reached forward and grabbed the counter behind Laura to steady himself, inadvertently crowding her against the barrier.

She shifted to kiss at his neck as John reached down and gripped her thighs, lifting her up and depositing her on the countertop. Her hands were in his hair now, and John let out a moan of his own as he ran his hands up and down her deliciously soft bare thighs. He reached higher and pulled off her underwear, depositing them on the floor as she spread her legs and scooted closer to the edge of the counter.

"Tell me what you want," John whispered as Laura whimpered and squirmed against him, and he reveled in just how different this was from their normal dejected fucking. This was lively, energetic, hungry even. This was hot.

"I want you," Laura panted, dipping her hands into his shorts to pull more insistently at his cock. John stumbled forward, letting out a gasp and leaning his forehead against hers as he panted desperately.

"Prove it," he breathed, and Laura pulled back to give him a challenging look.

"Down on your knees, Captain Watson," she commanded, and John's face flushed red for a moment before he did as he was told.

She scooted to the edge of the counter, her thighs on either side of John's head, and placed a hand firmly in his hair. John moved forward, placing his mouth against her and smiling to himself when she let out a soft whimper. He licked at her soft and slow, then harder, pushing against her opening before circling around her clit. Both her hands were in his hair now, desperately pressing his face closer against her.

John devoured her with all the hunger and gusto he'd kept pent down over the past few months, and Laura let loose all the cries and whimpers and moans he'd so desperately missed. After just a few minutes of going about his duties John felt Laura's muscles begin to clench, her thighs restlessly jerking beside his head. She cried out and tightened her hands in his hair to an almost unbearable degree as she came, John furiously licking and sucking to prolong her orgasm as much as possible. She lay back in exhaustion once she'd finished, but John quickly jumped back to his feet and shucked his boxers. He pulled at his cock as he watched her, her face flushed and her chest heaving as she sat there with her legs spread wide for him.

"Come here," Laura panted, reaching forward to grab John's hips and guiding him towards her. John let out a low groan and let his eyes fall shut as he pushed into her, tight and wet and warm around him. He could have probably reached orgasm just by sitting inside of her. But then she began to roll her hips into his and it was John's turn to let out a whimper, burying his face in Laura's neck as the most indescribable pleasure coursed through him. He reached up to play with her breasts again, loving how plump and warm they felt in his hands, her nipples hard beneath his fingers as he squeezed and tugged.

He knew he wasn't going to last long as he began pumping into her with more energy and Laura wrapped her arms around him to pull him closer. She was panting into his ear, every breath hitched with a slight whimper at the end, and it was all he could do not to explode from that sound alone.

"John," she whispered, tightening around him, and hearing his name on her lips was enough to make his cock quiver inside of her. "John, John you're so good to me," she panted, and John was nearly knocked off his feet with the force of his orgasm. His entire body shuddered as he came, nuzzling into Laura's neck and gasping for breath.

She let him stay there once he'd finished, rather than pushing him away and retreating to another space as she so often did once they'd had their typically sad and emotionless moment.

As he stood pantsless in the kitchen with Laura's hands lazily trailing up and down his back, John couldn't help but wonder if this was a sign of things to come. Perhaps now they would be closer, perhaps if she would finally let him in they could begin to repair the shit that was their lives. Ever the optimist, John snuggled closer to her and hoped the worst was over now.

* * *

Laura couldn't sleep.

In the early days her insomnia had been her body's defence against all too realistic dreams of Sebastian's attack, imagining Sherlock leaping from that ledge, thinking of what might have happened if John hadn't grabbed Sebastian's gun in time, wondering what those men might have really done to Mrs. Hudson, thinking of her sister and how many times she'd been left or abandoned by her.

When she finally did fall asleep, she'd often jerk awake at the sound of a tortured cry from John. The two never shared their dreams, but she knew he thought of Sherlock, of the horror he'd witnessed that chilly morning. She used to roll over and pull him close, comforting him through his troublesome sleep with soothing whispers and gentle kisses, running her hands through his hair and along his back until his breathing evened out again.

But not tonight. Tonight she would let him whimper and scream.

She wanted him to feel the pain and frustration she felt as she thought about what would happen now. John had been right this morning when he'd told her that her one attempt to make things right had been in vain. She knew now that there was nothing she could do, but that didn't make the realization any less painful. She felt like screaming and crying, like raving and ranting, like punching and kicking John until he lost control and finally, finally hit her back. But she knew he never would. He would never be the man she wanted him to be- the sort of man she could hate. Because Laura wanted so desperately to be able to hate him, to blame all her woes on the man who shared her bed.

But he only ever gave her reasons to love him. She knew she was difficult to be around these days- and it wasn't as if John was an agreeable ray of sunshine either- but he refused to give up on her. And Laura couldn't stand it. Everyone else she'd ever loved had left her - why wouldn't he? Why did he insist on sticking around and prolonging her pain, reminding her that she didn't really deserve all he'd given her? Why did he torture her like this?

Laura rolled over and looked at John. His face was twisted in fear and pain, his brown dampened by a light sheen of sweat. Unable to help herself, Laura shifted closer towards him and wrapped him in a comforting hug, placing a kiss on his forehead and gently whispering sweet kindnesses in his ear. She could never hate this man, she thought with a deep sigh; no matter how angry and pained she was, she would always look after him.

Something had been different about today. They'd taken a step closer to what they used to be, to how they used to be with each other. But it had still been far from enough; the sex had been better than usual, good even, but that didn't change the fact that everything else was still in ruins.

They'd been in love once. Laura still loved him, there was no denying that. She loved him so much it hurt. But things had changed. The didn't talk anymore, unless to argue. They didn't touch anymore,unless as a sad conclusion to one of their many arguments. They didn't laugh together, spend time together, enjoy each other's company together. They were no longer in love.

And part of Laura couldn't help wondering if perhaps no matter what they did, they couldn't be in love anymore. Perhaps they'd needed Sherlock in their lives to reach that state of happiness that lets love in. And that thought was perhaps the most depressing idea Laura had entertained to date. Because if that were true, it meant she and John could never be happy again.

Damn the concrete permanence of death.

* * *

**A/N: Like that little bit of dramatic irony there at the end? Next chapter Molly returns, and Sherlock finally makes an appearance! Yay dead detectives! **


End file.
